


Best Thing for Everybody

by EvilShtriga



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Post-Credits Scene, Cryofreeze, Dissociation, Feels, M/M, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Civil War (Marvel), Stucky - Freeform, Trigger words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:01:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6905431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvilShtriga/pseuds/EvilShtriga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*CIVIL WAR MID-CREDIT SCENE SPOILERS*</p><p>Bucky thaws in Wakanda, wakes up thinking T'Challa is his handler.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Best Thing for Everybody

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make things clear:
> 
> This fic is set after and based on the CACW mid-credit scene, which means it contains a major spoiler for the said scene.
> 
> Also, by no means is it a fix-it fic! I'm here to bring you the FEELS, but I really don't know if it's a nice or painful kind of feels. A mixture of both, probably. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The first thing he’s aware of is stillness. The immovable stillness of his body, the dull stillness of his mind, slowly registering somewhere, definitely not in his heart, not in his brain yet, but _somewhere_. Even time seems to be hardly moving forward, like it’s stopped to look at him, prolonging the state he’s in, though he can’t tell if that’s mercy or torture. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

Maybe no such categories apply. Maybe no descriptive categories should apply ever. Maybe he’s just supposed to last, stuck in the moment that stretches forever, not a dream, not any kind of reality either. No past to remember, no future to wait for. No memories to haunt his mind, no joy to look forward to, no pain to dread. He just exists, and shouldn’t that be enough? Isn’t it a miracle in and of itself?

But no, of course not, because that would be too simple. He’s not allowed to just be; it was only a temporary state, because all too soon (or is it finally?) time turns its back on him and keeps moving forward, gradually accelerating until it reaches what must be its normal speed, and it’s so fast it makes him a little dizzy despite the cold numbness of his body and the foggy numbness still filling his mind.

It takes some time to get used to, well, time. The way he knows he’s anchored in it and it passes, dragging him along. The way things seem to be slowly, ever so slowly changing, even if he’s not sure whether they have the right to. The way the very idea of belonging to a timeline and moving along with it settles in his mind, hesitant at first and then crashing and maybe a little mind-blowing.

He lets himself float on the surface of consciousness, not plunging in yet, because he can’t, he’d drown, the depths of his mind would swallow him and never let go, kill him, and now that the nothingness around him isn’t timeless anymore he knows he doesn’t want to leave it, doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want to _cease to exist_. He wants to move forward with the time, no matter the destination but maybe because there’s only one. Forward. Ahead. Future, starting now.

The realization is a cue for his body to catch up and it feels just weird, like he’s slowly emerging and yet sinking at the same time, the fact that there is a body he lives in registering like waves invading the shore, an acute feeling of _something_ there and gone in an instant, then back right under his fingertips and far out of his reach again a fraction of second later. Like maybe his mind and body are running diagnostics, testing communication systems and compatibility, installing updates.

The volatile sensation of a body comes and goes for a while until something finally aligns just right and grounds his mind in the physicality of existence. It’s a trap. It’s a release. It’s unfathomably human.

He’s been spared the burden of life for so long it’s a little overwhelming at first, havoc raging in his mind and sending his dulled, still unresponsive senses into some kind of overdrive from lack of stimulation and maybe a little desperate urge to _copy_.

And then the emptiness of his surroundings begins to recede. He gets a better sense of his body, a notion of where it ends, the very surface of his skin a sharp line between the trap-cage-shelter of his body and the vast expanse of what’s beyond. His mind snaps into focus as he actually begins to _feel_ the outermost layer of his body, cold as ice and yet burning like living flames licking his fingers and toes, gradually reaching further, consuming his legs and his arm, caressing his face, pinching his nose and his ears, kissing his lips in a numb and painful way that makes the red poison in his veins run faster and grow hotter until it must be boiling, threatening to tear the soft tissue of its piping apart and burn him on the inside.

He knows he can’t move, doesn’t even attempt to, because his body wouldn’t obey anyway, not while the hell of growing heat shifts and penetrates the deeper layers of his body, somehow unlocking new levels in his mind as well, bringing new amounts of pain into the equation, making his nerves scream since his mouth can’t.

He has a dim memory of going through this before, but it unfolds along with new kinds of pain and chaos, like he remembers it’s not the first time, but has no idea what to anticipate next anyway.

He realizes he’s breathing and tries to focus on it, feel the way precious air travels through his nose to fill his lungs, the way his muscles stretch and relax to make room for it, the surface of his chest rising and falling, expanding and shrinking back, slow and steady work to keep him alive. He tries to count his breaths, but time is zooming in and out again, stretching and making some breaths last eons, then squeezing him into short ragged fights for oxygen.

And then suddenly the calm breathing pattern is back again, a predictable rhythm as his mind shifts the physical experience of space into focus. Directions. There’s an up and a down. There’s physical contact, pressure on his skin where there was only numbness and pain before. Touch.

He’s lying on his back and there’s something beneath him. Must be a table. He can’t feel the restraints yet, but he knows they’re there. Maybe if he doesn’t move for a little longer he can fool himself into believing there are none, just for the briefest moment pretend he’s allowed to rest, like the horizontal position can ever mean a moment’s respite or a nap, not preparation for work.

And just like that, the fog in his mind clears, the scattered thoughts and sensations arranging themselves in an order that makes sense, the only one that there is, the only way he’s allowed to exist.

It’s quiet all around, just a low hum of machinery in the background, but no voices yet – Добрый день солдат – no, there’s nothing, so he keeps his eyes closed. He knows they’ll snap open the moment he’s spoken to.

He loses his grip on reality again, the passage of time a blur as he waits for a command to crack in the air like a whiplash, or for a rough hand to slap him.

Nothing happens.

He opens his eyes, slowly, cautiously letting in the light he knows must be sharp, but somehow it’s not. Sure, the place he’s in is not as dark as most of the rooms and bunkers he used to wake up to, but the light here is somehow gentle and doesn’t hurt his eyes.

He looks around and spots three technicians, white coats and all, and another man, who must be his handler, because he carries himself in a proud, unyielding fashion, shoulders back, relaxed but suggesting strength and self-confidence. There’s no doubt who’s in charge around here.

Still, there seems to be something off about the whole thing. He frowns, looking again, trying to understand. Then two things hit him. First, the entire crew is black. He doesn’t remember ever having a black handler, much less everyone around him, so it must be some kind of a clue as to where he is. Certainly not in Siberia anymore. He might be even somewhere in Africa, but where exactly he can’t tell. It doesn’t bother him, not really; all these people are strangers to him, but he’s woken up in different places around the world before, frozen in the US, woken in Slovakia, frozen in France, woken in Tunisia, frozen in Russia, woken in Brazil, frozen in Egypt, woken in China. Handlers changed in time, too. It’s not a big deal, he just likes to know his location as precisely as he’s allowed to. But he’ll know all the specifics soon enough.

Second, though, he can’t spot the chair, and that one is a weird thing. No matter the location, the chair was always one of the first things he saw after the thaw. Well, maybe rifles trained on him were the only thing preceding the wipe, and again there are none to be seen, so maybe that means he’s not going to be wiped yet.

Which means they’ll be jumping right to the next part.

His mind is already stuck on the words he knows are coming, his body trembling in response to the sheer memory of how these sounds reverberate inside his skull, the way they have filled him so many times, taking his fears and doubts and a little bit of his very life away as the switches flipped inside his head.

Желание. Ржaвый. Семнадцать. Рассвет. Печь. Девять. Добросердечный. Возвращение на родину. Один. Грузовой вагон.

Я готов отвечать.

No, he’s not. No one’s said the words yet. He doesn’t have to be ready yet.

He watches his handler and the man watches him back, but doesn’t say anything. He’s not holding the red book, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the words. He’s keeping a safe distance; his face betrays nothing.

The Soldier is confused. The silence is too long, somebody should already have said or done something, commented on his behavior or corrected him, barked an order or simply approached and carried out whatever procedure they deemed necessary. And yet, somehow, nothing happens. Everyone seems to be waiting and the Soldier has no idea what they are waiting for.

But then, what choice does he have? He waits with them, wondering if he’s supposed to know something by himself.

He tries to remember on what occasion he was put back on ice this time, because maybe the mission requires more of him? His mind is weird, shooting scraps of memories at his consciousness, but they make no sense and don’t seem to have anything to do with any current mission, so he dismisses them as the noise that usually means he’s overdue for recalibration. Maybe that’s the reason he’s awake now?

His heart picks up again at the thought, and though he’s not sure why, he decides not to report the malfunction. Technically he knows the wipe is necessary, but something tells him he should avoid it, so he does. He waits, shooting quick sideways glances at his handler, not daring to look directly into his eyes, but checking for any signs of anger or impatience.

Maybe he should ask a question, demand orders, but then, it’s not his place to demand anything, and besides, he hasn’t been given permission to speak.

The handler finally comes closer, looks at him, and the Soldier wavers under his gaze, shrinking on himself, his throat instantly going dry in fear of the sheer power radiating from the man. A shiver runs down his spine, followed by a full-body shudder, and he knows he’s just misbehaved. He looks down, swallowing hard, and hopes saying the words may save him from the punishment that’s bound to come.

“Я готов отвечать.”

He sees the way his handler’s facial muscles contract, confusion written all over his face a split second until he regains his composure.

Отлично, солдат.

He waits for the simple words of acceptance, but they never come. Instead, the handler’s shoulders slump a little, as if under added weight.

“I’m not going to hurt you. You’re safe here and among friends.”

The Soldier understands none of it, but he nods anyway. “Yes, sir, understood. Thank you, sir.”

The handler makes a face and looks away for a brief moment, then speaks again. “Do you recognize me?”

The Soldier focuses his gaze on the handler, hoping he’s interpreting the question right, that he’s allowed to look more closely and isn’t requited to recognize him by the sound of his voice alone or, worse, that the question isn’t a trap. Because if he’s ever seen the man before, he can’t tell where or when, or under what circumstances. The face does seem familiar in a very distant way, but he can’t assign it a name from his inventory, nor even associate any specific feeling that would go with this handler, because even the wave of fear and gratitude that washes over him like a mixture of unwanted memories and intrusive thoughts feels wrong. It sets off something in his chest, some kind of panic, because of course fear and gratitude are the right things to feel toward his handler, but these particular ones are so vastly different from what he expected them to be that he can’t really process them.

His body slips his control again, eyes going wide, muscles locking in place, heart racing, his breaths going quick and shallow, hardly supplying enough air to keep him going for long. The corners of his vision grow dark, so he closes his eyes, aware of his disobedience, desperate to make up at least a little and not faint, not faint, because that’s not allowed, not f—

The next thing he knows is that the lights are out and someone’s moving around the room, rather quietly, but not in a way suggesting stealth. The person doesn’t freeze to check the surroundings, their breath sounds perfectly normal, relaxed; they just make little noise.

He turns his head a little and looks around, trying to make out the shapes of the equipment and the room itself without drawing too much attention to himself, without alerting whoever is here with him. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t want their attention, even if he doesn’t really know why.

Unfortunately, he’s not left alone. The face that suddenly appears right over him is all wrong, nothing like what he expected to see, dark skin, no glasses, no creepy smile stretching the man’s lips, but it doesn’t matter, maybe he remembered wrong, because who else can this man be?

He knows how he’s supposed to react.

“Barnes. Sergeant. Three-two-five-five-sevvvv… en?” He frowns, because he’s not sure of the number. He tries again. “Three-two-five-seven…” No, that’s wrong. “Three-two-five-five…”

“Sergeant, you’re not in captivity here.”

What? It doesn’t make sense, the man’s lying to him, not for the first time. Bucky’s not talking to him.

“Three. Two. Five. Five? Five. Five-seven. Sev--?”

“The war’s long over, sergeant, you’re in Wakanda now, and safe.”

“Three. Two. Five. Five… Seven…”

The man leaves.

He waits for him to return with tools, but the room remains silent and empty. The tension he didn’t know was in his muscles fades as he starts to believe he’s been given some time to rest, probably gather his strength before the next procedure.

He lets his eyes fall closed and doesn’t catch the moment his mind shuts down too.

The next thing he knows is that someone’s standing right next to the table he’s lying on, close enough to touch. He can hear their breathing and just lies for a while listening to the regularity of the pattern, his eyes still closed, until the person sighs quietly. He looks up and stares right into his handler’s face. The handler smiles gently at him.

“I won’t hurt you. You’re safe. Can I stand here or would you prefer I moved away?”

The Soldier frowns. He doesn’t understand. Is this a test?

“Sir can do as he pleases,” he answers and watches the handler make an unhappy face. It confuses him even more. “Sir, I am ready to comply,” he adds, desperate to get it right.

“That is not what I’m here for. Someone else wants to see you. Can you sit up?”

He wants to say he can’t, because he’s restrained, but he tries anyway and – he does. There are no restraints, nothing holding him down. Gone are the technicians, too, it’s just him and his new handler until the door to the room slides open and another man steps in.

The Soldier hardly registers his mouth falling open and eyes going wide at the sight. He can feel his heart slamming against the inside of his chest like it wants to scream. Because that man is supposed to be dead and gone forever, erased from the surface of the earth, god, he thought he’d never see him again, and yet here he is.

The Soldier slides off the table, knees hit the floor. He bends his neck, keeping his eyes down, his only hand resting on his thigh.

“Master.”

“What?” The secretary moves closer. “Oh no, we’re not doing this again, Bucky, please look at me.”

The order is apparently not meant for him, so the Soldier keeps staring at his own legs. He can hear the secretary approach his handler.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, he woke up like this.”

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

Footsteps on the floor. A pair of jeans in front of his face. The man crouches down, now on face level with the Soldier. The secretary. The Soldier still doesn’t dare look at him, not without direct permission.

“Bucky?”

That weird word again. He thinks he should know it, but has no idea where from, so he decides not to make a fool of himself and guess. The secretary must have already realized he doesn’t quite understand and if it’s something that should be punished or corrected, then there’s no way to avoid the consequences. All he can do is try not to make things worse.

The secretary shifts his weight and sits on the floor, directing his attention to him.

“Can you look at me?” It sounds like a question, but the Soldier knows an order when he hears it. He looks up, meets his master’s gaze for a split second, then moves his eyes to the left, locking them on the spot right next to the man’s face. “Do you know where you are?”

“No, sir.”

“Who am I?”

“You’re my master, sir.”

“What’s my name?”

“Alexander Pierce, sir.”

The secretary draws in a sharp breath, his eyes going wide, and the horror reflected in his face makes no sense at all, because the Soldier got that last one right, hasn’t he? But the secretary hides his face in his hands for a while and the way he breathes sounds like he’s fighting for control over himself.

The Soldier doesn’t understand any of it.

“No, I’m not him. You know me from a different place, Buck.”

The Soldier frowns. Where else would he know a man who looks _like this_ from? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t make sense. _He_ can’t make sense of any of it.

“Bucky.” The secretary’s voice is thick with emotion. He reaches out with one hand and the Soldier honest to god _trembles_ , his eyes shut close; he can feel a grimace stretch his face at the thought of what’s to follow and he can’t help the reaction as his stomach revolts. He doubles over and dry heaves, horror clutching at his heart, because he’s disobeying and he’ll be punished for it, but somehow he can’t stop, can’t force his body to behave.

He can hear his master swallow hard and take a forcefully slow breath.

“I’m sorry, I think I’ll come back later.”

The secretary stands up and heads for the door, fast at first, then slower as he actually reaches the exit. He stops for a moment and the Soldier knows that if he leaves with nothing, there will be punishment, that if he lets this man go now, something will be bruised. Broken. Bones. Bonds.

“Wait.” His voice sounds small, hesitant, disbelieving, matching the chaos in his head, the alarm ringing red inside his skull. “Steve?”

Bucky blinks a few times, unable to tear his eyes away from the man hovering on the threshold, now that he thinks he’s finally gotten something right. Even from the distance he can see the little smile creeping onto Steve’s lips, the fierce spark that lights up in his eyes. Steve walks to him.

“Hey, Buck. Good to see you again.”

He comes to a halt right in front of him, dropping to the floor, visibly aborting the movement of his shoulders before his arms reach Bucky. Pity, Bucky wouldn’t mind the touch.

“How’re you doing, pal? Missed me a little?”

“Not really, but I was in Wakanda for business, so I thought I’d drop by.” He laughs. Bucky snorts in response. Steve smiles, leans forward an inch. “Of course I missed you. C’mere.”

He wraps his arms around Bucky, slowly, giving him time to protest if he wants to, but Bucky just sags against him, suddenly tired, so tired that he doesn’t even raise his own hand to rest on Steve’s back, just lets himself be hugged and savors the moment. He closes his eyes and breathes in, a deep breath, no hyperventilation, no more panic, no more confusion that cannot be temporarily dismissed. He lets the warmth of Steve’s body surround him like a woolen blanket and the scent of his skin, the scent of home, fill his lungs.

He relaxes and then, finally, his brain catches up with reality, memories clicking back into place, and he pulls away to look at T’Challa and acknowledge him with the respect he owes him, but the king is gone. Steve must see something reflect in his posture, because he immediately redirects Bucky’s attention.

“Slept well?”

Bucky shrugs, which makes for a weird, asymmetric movement with the empty socket of his left shoulder. “Dreamless.” Steve nods and opens his mouth to actually say something, but Bucky has a feeling he knows what it’ll be, and he’s not sure he could bear with the soft comforting meaningless nonsense. “How long did I sleep?” he asks before Steve can start talking.

“Two years.”

It somehow hits him harder than it should. That’s an awfully long time. Sure, he’s been frozen for longer by HYDRA and it’s stupid, because logically he knows he’s too dangerous to have been out there for so long, risking being mind-controlled once again, damn, he even _expected_ just that after he woke up. Kinda messed up in his head for real, ain’t he?

But then his heart weeps for the two years that flew past, with him in the cryo and Steve left alone, because a lot of things could have happened during such a span of time and his chin starts trembling a little at the realization that he could have been waking up to a world without Steve Rogers, to a world where T’Challa finally breaks through the pattern Bucky followed after the thaw only to tell him that Steve isn’t coming to see him, not now, not ever.

He shakes his head, clearing his mind of the grim thoughts. Steve is here, and so is Bucky. He lets out a long breath, hoping some of the tension that crept into his muscles will go with it.

“So… Is there a way to erase HYDRA from my brain? Or am I going back on ice?”

“You’re not going on ice, Bucky, you’re not. Not on anyone’s orders.”

He watches Steve for a long time, the initial joy of seeing each other gone from the both of them. Steve looks solemn, his shoulders slumping a little, just the tiniest fraction of an inch, yet Bucky notices. Other people might not, but he can read Steve better than other people. Not as well as back in the forties, when Steve used to be an open book to him, but still better.

“Not even issued by common sense?” He falls silent for a moment, letting Steve think about it. “Because you’ve got nothing, do you? If you recited the words, I’d just snap back into blind compliance. Go on, tell me I’m wrong, Steve, and don’t you dare even try to lie.”

“I’m working on it, Buck. Haven’t been thinking about much else for the past two years, but it’s not a matter of buying a rice root brush and scrubbing your brain.” Steve isn’t even mad, and that’s the worst part. He’s just sad, genuinely, bottomlessly sad. Bucky immediately feels bad for being unnecessarily offensive.

“I know. I’m sorry, shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong, though.” Steve shrugs, feigning indifference, but the tension in his shoulders gives him away.

“So why did you wake me up? Surely not just to look at my ugly face?”

“See, Wakanda’s not a safe place for you to… sleep… anymore. We can move you to some other location if you want—”

“You could’ve done that without unfreezing me, though, I’m sure Wakandan cryochambers are at least as good as HYDRA’s.”

“Dammit, Buck, I’m not doing it like this.”

“Why not? HYDRA did it all the time, the tank was made to withstand all kinds of travel—”

“No, don’t.” Steve raises his hand. “Just don’t. I’m not shipping you around the world like a parcel.”

“I’d trust you to, though.”

Maybe it’s the wrong thing to say, because Steve sets his jaw and looks away, and he seems so small and fragile for a moment, and then he just leans his forehead on Bucky’s shoulder, shaking his head.

“You stupid jerk, I swear I should’ve done that, just given you to FedEx and shipped you to Alaska or India, or maybe Australia,” he says to Bucky’s clavicle. Bucky smiles in response.

“Your own fault, pal, you’re stuck with me awhile now.” He puts his arm around Steve, a silent message that he’s welcome to stay where he is, leaning on his shoulder.

“I’m doomed,” comes the answer, followed by a soft laugh, but other than that Steve makes no move to get up, doesn’t even shift his weight by an inch, and Bucky finds himself zeroing in on that particular point of contact. He can’t help wondering how long it will be until he’s back on ice, and how long it will be then until he wakes again. He summons the courage to break the emerging banter.

“So where am I going? You have any specific place in mind?” Bucky hates himself for doing it to Steve, but he has to know.

Steve tenses, muscles hardening beyond belief, as if they turned into rock right under Bucky’s hand when he wasn’t looking. He starts rubbing Steve’s back on instinct and realizes what he’s doing when his hand is already in motion. He doesn’t stop.

“We’re going to Canada, I think. If you want to.”

Bucky nods. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“You don’t have to, though. You can change your mind anytime and nobody’s gonna say a word against it.”

“I know, Steve, but I really think it’s better that way. Safer.”

Steve doesn’t answer, just turns his head so that his temple rests on Bucky’s shoulder this time, his next words quieter, but somehow clearer than the murmur half-muted by Bucky’s body.

“I’ll find a way to erase those words from your mind, Buck.”

“I know you will.”

They sit like that in silence, neither bothering to count the passing minutes, or is it hours already? Their jet is ready to fly back to North America sooner than they’d like, but if Steve says the situation is urgent, then Bucky isn’t going to slow them down. He thinks he should ask for more details, learn what’s wrong, why the safest place in the entire world is not safe enough anymore, but he can’t bring himself to care, can’t force the grim thoughts back into Steve’s mind now that he’s beginning to relax, muscles unlocking, his features softer, half-lidded eyes and a suggestion of a smile stretching his lips ever so slightly. He looks happy and Bucky’s been the source of enough problems for him; he won’t take the bliss of the moment from him. Besides, he enjoys the sight himself, Steve sitting next to him, his seatbelt fastened but his head lolling to one side until Bucky gives up on sitting comfortably and offers his shoulder as a pillow.

It warms his heart in a way even the cryofreeze can never fully put out. Not just Steve’s commitment, because they’re not the only ones flying to Canada. The plane bears also five Wakandan scientists and technicians who volunteered to move with him, set everything up and then make sure it keeps working well, keeping watch over his sleep somewhere near the Bras d’Or Lake.

They land at what must be an abandoned army airfield. Bucky has no idea where they are, but he doesn’t ask; he thinks it might be safer if he doesn’t know. They take a helicopter, then switch to a car. The journey is long, but he enjoys it, cherishes every silent moment with Steve by his side, every stupid comment and lame joke he makes, savors the way their shoulders and legs touch in the limited space of the backseat.

His new home is buried underground, an old though redecorated lab, clean and objectively nice, although its sight wakes some kind of distant, second-thought doubt that would threaten to make him second-guess himself if he could allow emotions into this. But the decision is rational and he refuses to let his feelings put him in the position of a menace to the world once again. He doesn’t want to cause any more harm than he already has. He’s got to go back on ice.

The equipment is already here, the familiar shapes of Wakandan technology easing his apprehension a little, because he knows the technicians are familiar with it and it’ll be just like the last time.

“Sir.” The head technician walks up to him and a mask of professionalism falls from her face as she gives him a reassuring smile. He feels bad for not remembering her name, but once again, maybe it’s better that way. “We’re ready when you are.”

He nods, then remembers his manners, refusing the lump growing in his throat to stop him from speaking. “Thank you.”

He turns back to Steve and there it is, that silent grief etched in his eyes more than anything, worry lines creasing his forehead and it hurts Bucky to know the only way to smooth them out is too risky to be an option yet.

“I’ll come back for you, Buck.”

Steve leans forward and kisses him, and Bucky kisses back, brief and chaste, then pulls away, because this is a little too much and too good, and if they keep going for another second, he may not find it in him to go to the cryo.

“I’ll be waiting right here.”

He stands in front of the cryo chamber and looks at it for a while, letting his eyes wander over the details of the design without really registering or analyzing it, just looking, clearing his mind of all thoughts, trying to turn his heart to ice before all of him gets trapped in the cold again. It’ll hurt less that way.

“I’m ready.”

He walks into the cryo chamber and presses his back into it as the technicians secure the restraints holding his body in place. He knows Steve is watching him carefully and tries not to look back, knowing it’ll only make everything harder for the both of them, but his eyes stray and lock with Steve’s. He forces his lips into a smile, meaning it to be reassuring, but he knows he’s failed when Steve doesn’t smile back, just keeps staring, eyes shining with wistfulness.

The whir of the cryo door sliding closed sounds to Bucky’s ears a little like an eye trying to contain the tears that threaten to fall, or maybe like a heart shrinking and falling into pieces. The door locks, airtight and soundproof, and for a split second he can hear nothing but his own breath, surprisingly calm even as his heartrate picks up. He remembers to close his eyes, not for his own sake, because it really wouldn’t change much, cold is cold, they’d freeze just right whether covered with his lids or not, but for Steve’s. He doesn’t want Steve to stare into his dead eyes, unseeing, unaware of the world around them and of their own stillness. He wants to look like he’s asleep, so that Steve can look at him and think about rest and peace of mind and safety.

Then, a mere second later, the cold seeps into the chamber, filling it fast, wrapping its ghost arms around him, lulling him to sleep, dulling his senses and thoughts until there’s nothing but the timeless, detached existence once more, free of consciousness and memory and feelings, free of fear and pain.

It isn’t good. It isn’t bad. It simply is.

He simply is.

 


End file.
